Grayson Snaps

Chapter 8: Forgiveness, Fists, and a Whole Lot Amiss

Chapter 8: Forgiveness, Fists, and a Whole Lot Amiss

Why wonder Grayson had given me such an odd look. I think I should be relieved but I'm not.

What I'm looking at over the fence is not Cheyenne's body, but the body of a canine.

"Y-you killed Norman."

I'm trying to comprehend how my brother could kill and then partially eat our dog.

But, yeah, he did.

I'm peeking over the edge of our neighbor's fence, balanced on a stack of fire wood pushed up against the plank wood. Norman is shredded, barely recognizable. If that neighborhood kid sees him...he's going to be majorly messed up in the near future.

Grayson's sitting on the ground by the fire wood.

I mean, I knew he hated dogs, but this is really fucking bad.

I look down at him. He has pulled his legs to his chest, wrapped his arms around his knees. Fuck.

"You killed Norman," I reiterate. Grayson looks up at me, his eyes bloodshot; he has this desperate look on his face again. Petrified. I think I may be as stunned as he is.

"He barked, and he barked, and he kept fucking barking," Grayson says, running a hand through his hair, his voice growing louder, "I-I just, I just...I couldn't stop myself."

I step down from the wood stack tentatively. He's looking at me like a kicked puppy, as though that's somehow an excuse for EATING OUR FUCKING DOG!!

"E, what am I supposed to do?" He says, brokenly. Man, I love Gray so much, but he really does need help...damn.

Instead of answering, I pull him back up by his shoulders and lead him into the house.

-

I helped Grayson wash the blood off his face, mostly because he was acting catatonic as hell when I dragged his ass downstairs. Midway through he grabbed my hand and took care of the rest. I just sat on the edge of the bathtub with him, making sure he didn't feel alone. We didn't talk about what he did to Norman, but he did confide in me where he was tonight.

Now, we're in our room; I'm using our shared homework desk and one of the chairs I pulled from the dining room. I have white gloves on for complete sanitation, the kind you get at the grocery store, and I have a lighter in my hand. I'm concentrating. Grayson is sitting on the edge of his bed, his hair damp; his bedtime clothes are clean and dry. Although Grayson's pointed nails seem to be gone, his upper canines are still slightly prominent in his mouth; I pretend not to notice.

"It wasn't at all like I thought it would be," he breaks the silence, lifting the lighted cigarette to his lips, "I didn't even...you know," he says, looking over at me, "Climax or whatever. At first it was just all this squirming and squealing and then she's just done. Climbs off me. She's smiling, you know. And I'm just kind of sitting there. What do I do? I can't just ask her to get back on. It made me feel...I don't know. Inadequate, I guess. I think she knows too. I think she knows I have trouble getting off. She just says, 'That was nice.' I had to finish myself off by the bushes, E. The fucking bushes. I bet Cheyenne is out there telling everyone what a freak I am."

Grayson takes another drag of the cigarette, the smoke lifting in the air. He has this used expression on his face, like he's a rag doll that got played with too much. I take it from his demeanor that he isn't all into Cheyenne anymore. That's probably a good thing.

"I don't think so. I bet they'll say the same about her," I respond, trying to sound encouraging; Grayson sneers softly although it's not targeted towards me; he takes another slow, tentative drag.